


The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret. [Fred. Free.]

by Petrichor (Mythmaker)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: And then Drama, And then Humor again, Aunt May is my hero, Cameo Appearances from Many NYC Vigilantes, Gen, Humor, Identity Reveal, Just stay the course, Magical Shenanigans, Other, Peter Parker Could Actually Use a Hug, Peter Parker's Rocky Relationship with Magic Starts Now, Peter Pays Attention to Scents And Everyone Thinks He's Weird For It, Team Let Peter Parker Say Fuck, Truth Spells, characters listed in order of appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythmaker/pseuds/Petrichor
Summary: [guyinthechair: tell me your identity?][im_conCERNed: I’m a midtown science and tech high school student who mutated when ][im_conCERNed: I’m definitely not Peter Parker’s clone I’m the real deal and ][im_conCERNed: I’m sixteen and I work for Stark Industries outside the law but I don’t get paid so it really is an internship except I don’t do coffee runs and ][im_conCERNed: my name’s really peter and I’m biiiiisjsksjksjksjs ][im_conCERNed: ned,,,, I’m going to die.]-----------------Honesty is in Peter Parker’s bones, but it shouldn’t be on his face. Or in his voice. Or the rest of him.//Written for theTeam Red Mini Bang 2020//
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 265
Collections: Team Red Mini Bang 2020





	The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret. [Fred. Free.]

**Author's Note:**

> I'm done. I'm dead. I did it. 
> 
> Note to anyone paying attention: I like Tony Stark. Really, I do. I promise. I just love Peter more.
> 
> Art done by [maddiepuffin](https://puffins-studio.tumblr.com/post/614938148039016448/a-little-embroidery-to-go-with-the-fic-the-truth) is posted at the end of the fic. Lavish them with praise and adulation.

See, the tragedy of this whole thing was that he’d been having a really good day. All tests passed. All chores done. All extracurriculars met. With his tendency to brush off how much the Academic Decathlon team relied on him (physics and biology … and chemistry questions for the most part, but still), he always seemed surprised they nearly wept with joy whenever he showed up for a tournament.

“I’m like right here, you assholes,” Flash had said, pointedly glaring in Peter’s direction.

“Yes, we know, shut up Flash.” Abe just … had absolutely zero chill. Peter knew – logically – that he shouldn’t fear his fellow teammate, but Peter also knew there weren’t a lot of people who just outright slammed Flash in the open and could appreciate that kind of chutzpah. Appreciate and fear. Abe had some very chaotic energy, and frankly Peter wished his own brand of chaos could share some of that terrorizing quality.

When they had finished, and walked out of P.S. 118 wearing their badges of honor, Ned seemed to light up with a memory only he knew – before sharing with the rest of the group after an excited wiggle.

“MJ, didn’t you say you would take us to that café place you found if we won?” Ned queried, sounding remarkably innocent as he waggled the medal he wore in her direction.

“Oh my gosh, the one that does those ice cream espresso things?” Cindy asked, eyes alight. What little he knew about Cindy told Peter, on every level, that she shouldn’t be allowed near caffeine.

MJ, who was busy trying to incinerate Ned with her eyes, paused before she spoke. “Affogatos. Yes. I did say that, didn’t I.”

“You can’t back out now,” Ned sang, as if he didn’t fear for his life. Bold move, Cotton.

“The best affogato in Queens is at Franco’s,” Flash interrupted. “If that’s all you’re going for.”

“Sacrilege,” MJ stated, sans inflection. “And I will prove it.”

Ned looked so smug, Peter had to nudge him to cut it out. “You’re acting like you have a death wish,” he murmured to his friend. “What’s gotten into you?”

“MJ is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum, swaddled in a conspiracy theory,” Ned responded, with strange determination. “I am determined to learn more.”

Peter, who was a literal, local cryptid on occasion, had to agree. “I’m just surprised you’re invested.”

“Aren’t you?”

Point taken.

Outside of their murmured conversation, Flash remained unimpressed. Frankly it was a little surprising he was sticking around. By this point, he was usually collected in a shiny Audi by his mother’s driver. “Where’s this mythical ‘better place’?”

“Big Gay Ice Cream. They opened a stand-only joint near Queens Technical.”

A round of booing almost drowned out MJ’s explanation. “Tools,” Charles added, pushing up his glasses with an expression of disdain.

“I don’t think their decathlon team is capable of infecting an ice cream joint. Or a café.” MJ crossed her arms. “You losers joining me or not?”

Cindy agreed so fast she nearly jumped, and the others followed. MJ’s nonchalant stare turned to Peter when he made no sound, affirmative or negative.

“Well?”

Peter weighed his options. The idea of additional caffeine was nice, but – as always – he had little spare change. “Uh…I can go, I guess.” Maybe he could steal bites from Ned’s order.

“No _internship_ to steal you away, Penis?”

MJ shot Flash a quelling look. “You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Ned grinned widely even as Flash made a rude gesture in MJ’s direction, which she returned with aplomb. “Princess Bride ref earns you ten points.”

“For what?”

“Stuff,” Ned clarified, typing something into his phone.

Peter merely shrugged and said nothing. It was the fastest way to make Flash annoyed as he was unable to retaliate without sounding like a broken record. The group moved en masse regardless, Cindy and Sally both trying to pry information from MJ about her other favorite places. MJ somehow revealed nothing. It was like asking about where she got her sandwiches from on Wednesdays – a complete and utter mystery, no matter what questions were asked.

The decathlon team had bonded well before DC, and were (outside of Peter himself) very included on day-to-day shenanigans. Peter remembered a time when none of them would talk to each other outside of their meetings, and now he could tentatively call these people … close acquaintances? Outside the group chat, he still didn’t start conversations with them on the regular.

(Then again, he didn’t start conversations.)

Peter also didn’t make friends. Not easily. Not now; and certainly not before a certain spider-related incident. He’d take what he could get.

Of course, a harmless excursion to get affogato turned into a high-stakes adventure as soon as Parker Luck™ got involved.

Ned was a treasure, and had covered for him remarkably well despite the timeline of nanoseconds they’d been working with before the wall of the stationary shop next door exploded outward. Peter had barely the time to get his mask on before the whole world shook and rattled his bones. His ears rung for several minutes, much to his displeasure.

None of his teammates were hurt, barring a scraped elbow here and there. Peter, reappearing as Spider-man, focused on their safety with an intensity that surprised him, before he turned his attention to the problem at hand.

A singular, floating man, with lightshow capabilities of unknown origin, had decided today was his day to shine. Shockingly he hadn’t chosen the whole ‘good guy’ shtick, and decided to wreak havoc. Peter didn’t need the backstory; the guy thought property destruction was a fun time, and Peter politely disagreed.

Unfortunately for mystery man, while his bright blue power blasts were strong, he wasn’t very good at the whole peripheral vision thing. That, and sometimes those blasts did… nothing? It was very confusing, Peter concluded, and more than a little irritating. Especially when he took a blast of said blue light to the face.

Several Blue Light Special jokes were made. They were all courtesy of Aunt May, who knew what a K-mart was.

The man himself seemed very out of it, even while he was trying to fight. He blinked in confusion just before Peter gave him a swift kick to the face, knocking him out. The bright blue glow surrounding him faded to nothing and he would have fallen headfirst into the concrete below had Peter not snagged him and let him hang in a cocoon for the authorities. Sparing only a few seconds to investigate where the man’s source of power was held, Peter ended up flummoxed, fleeing the scene as soon as he could hear sirens.

“Is everyone okay?”

He reappeared in a rush after reviewing his appearance to make sure nothing had happened with the weird blue light. He also added some of the probably-not-asbestos from nearby debris to his person, for obvious reasons. The concern he showed for everyone present was incredibly genuine, which did nothing to deter Flash’s incredible levels of excitement.

“Man you missed the coolest shit – Spider-man saved our asses!”

“Again,” Abe coughed out, well-coated by the shower of dust and debris that had rained down earlier. “Ugh, I’m gonna have to dry-clean my jacket.” He flipped the blazer’s collar irritably.

“We’ll all have to,” MJ’s voice came, oddly clear despite her powdered-doughnut impersonation. She eyeballed Peter, her expression blank.

He looked as innocent and concerned as humanly possible.

“Come on – I think razzle-dazzle over there ruined our treat…”

Of course they had to stay and answer police questions, however little they could assist. The owner of Big Gay Ice Cream offered everyone who’d been in the store a freebie next time they could feasibly open their doors again. No one declined, but it was likely no one would take them up on that offer. They’d have enough trouble staying open after an incident like this (unlike the stationary store, which might never make a comeback). Unlike Delmar’s, Damage Control would likely have nothing to do with cleaning up the mess, though that wasn’t a certainty either.

Peter’s heart worried, as it always did, for the little guy getting the short end of the stick. Maybe the neighborhood or GoFundMe could come to the rescue.

It was testament to the apparent cool factor of getting to see Spider-man in action that the decathlon team didn’t seem in low spirits when they were finally allowed to disperse. Peter wished he could feel the same.

\--

The next morning had him waking with a headache and now-semi-bruised ribs. He groaned, rolled over, regretted the motion severely, and sat up instead. It wasn’t super late, but he’d been out til around four in the morning. And it was eight now. So. You do the math.

He rubbed his temples, briefly wishing normal painkillers still worked on him, and walked out to what would become one of the worst days of his life.

Before this story moves any further: Peter wasn’t shy. He just wasn’t.

Quiet? Sure. His preference was to listen and wait before speaking, excitability over _certain_ things notwithstanding. So of course, he had to be shy. There wasn’t a middle ground he could stand on when it came to first impressions. And of course, those had to be the ones that lasted the longest.

Still. Not shy. Just thoughtful.

So it was a little alarming when he shuffled into the kitchen the following morning, saw Aunt May attempting eggs benedict and croaked out the following gem:

“Haven’t those eggs been tortured enough?”

Hoo boy.

“Excuse me, mister? You want to cook your own breakfast?”

_…what did I just say?_

“Not unless you want me to make high-quality honey bunches of oats. Why do we still have that stuff by the way? You don’t even like it. I definitely don’t like it.”

Not used to this level of loquaciousness from her nephew at this hour – or rather, at all – Aunt May stared without subtlety. “….Are you okay hon?”

“I’m fine. I just have some bruised ribs that I think might be broken, and a migraine, but that’s not the worst I’ve ever had,” Peter said, eyes looking down at his mouth with growing unease. “Um – that’s not – that’s not entirely all that happened but it’s all gone now. Worry. Don’t – don’t not worry. Uh.”

Aunt May’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Peter – what happened? You – your ribs?” Now her eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t have any serious injuries, and now you’ve got _possibly broken ribs_?”

Peter had set his default response for Aunt May’s inquiries of his nightly hobby to ‘I’m fine, just a little bruising that’ll be gone by morning,’ and unless it Really Was That Bad she let him lie. It was a fine balancing act. But now that he was apparently admitting it, she wouldn’t let him slide.

“It’s really not the worst thing that’s happened to me when I go out. You should have seen the other guy. Guys. Occasionally a lady. You’d be surprised how often I get smacked around really competent ladies,” Peter was now looking more and more horrified at himself. “I can’t – I can’t stop talking about this, May please change the subject.”

“Peter – you’re giving me a lot to unpack here. What _happened_?”

Apparently this was not the change of subject Peter would have preferred.

“Honestly I can’t begin to tell you Aunt May. There was this guy shooting blue light everywhere because apparently, he _needed_ to destroy a stationary store; that was his calling. I didn’t get hurt from that, but when I went out I caught like seven B&Es and had to you know, deal with that. They had crowbars – you have to stop me right now, May I can’t – but you know, no one had guns last night so I counted that as a win – ” Peter choked on his sentence and slapped a hand over his mouth, horror leeching his face of all color.

Both aunt and nephew stared at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time. May looked about as monochrome as Peter; both of them seemed ready to faint away for entirely different reasons.

“I’m sorry Aunt May,” Peter said, high-pitched, wobbly and just a little like he was singing the words because of how incredulous he felt _not_ saying what he was saying. He couldn’t keep his thoughts together, let alone held behind his lips.

May stared, eyes still round, brow furrowed.

Peter held his breath because talking felt like a death sentence.

“Did you finish your homework last night?”

“Yes,” Peter said immediately.

“Are you ahead or behind on your school work?”

Peter bit his cheek, but it still didn’t stop him from blurting out an answer. “On time – I just got back on track, but I’m not behind.”

She seemed a mix a mollified and amazed. Then hesitant. “Did you really break your ribs last night? Were there … any other injuries?”

_Don’tspeakdon’tspeakdon’tspeak—_

“Definitely broken ribs. Nothing else though, I promise,” Peter nearly whispered, eyes still wide with shock. “I’m okay Aunt May.”

His aunt’s shoulders slumped, relief taking over her body for a minute as she ran a hand through her hair. Then she laughed, a hint of desperation lingering behind the otherwise happy sound. “You aren’t lying.”

“I’m not sure I can anymore,” Peter admitted, realizing this _was_ the truth, or else he wouldn’t be saying it. “Can I stop answering questions now?” he asked, half-pleading, half-resigned. “Please?”

“Perhaps. We have a lot of months of evasive action to make up for,” May promised, but without any heat. Mostly she now sounded concerned. “What’s going on with you? I can’t believe you’re trying out honesty for no reason.” Okay maybe there was a little bit of bitterness. Again it seemed wrapped up in a burrito of true worry.

“I don’t know. I can’t help it. It’s actually really hard not to respond when you ask me stuff. There’s no filter.” The words practically tore their way out of him, so unwilling he was to explain, despite the obvious need. It sounded like one long, continuous grumble.

Aunt May hesitated. There was another terrifying moment where Peter thought she’d push for more (what little more there was to give), but she shook her head and smiled instead.

“Well … I asked for it. Thank you for telling me the truth, even if there’s … not much I can do about it. If you need help, all you have to do is ask. Like maybe an ice pack, at least?”

Peter genuinely knew, deep down, he didn’t deserve her.

\--

Having the uncontrollable urge to tell the truth 100% of the time was the opposite of helpful. Possibly the only person he didn’t mind being open around was Aunt May. This was because lying to her hurt every single instance, necessity or not. Honesty was more of a relief – the painful, cathartic kind, like setting a dislocated shoulder or cutting off a rotting limb.

He only knew what one of those felt like, thankfully.

That being said, it was the weekend. Mercy from some unknown deity gave him forty-eight hours to figure out how to get cured before school killed him on Monday. And it would, absolutely, kill him, no doubt about that.

Peter had no idea where to start.

Firstly he’d rather die than tell anyone what was happening. May had come close enough, but without a specific request, Peter wasn’t going to crack willingly. Ned? …Yeah…maybe. Ned. Because let’s face it, that reveal was inevitable. He had tried to keep secrets from Ned; he was good at it. But after the little hiccup that destroyed a certain Lego set, Peter found it difficult to justify. Like Aunt May, but not as harrowing. Anyone else knowing made him want to bury himself in soft peat for six months.

All of thirty minutes were spent arguing back and forth in his own head, and another fifteen were used to try and see if he could figure out a solution on his own. He knew the only thing – the only obvious thing – was Mr. Blue Light Special from the ice cream shop. Peter couldn’t be sure, but it was the only place from which to start.

Sadly, he still had to tell Ned.

> [guyinthechair: so why all the exclamation points?]
> 
> [guyinthechair: why hast thou summoned me]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I think I’m cursed]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: and I’m not sure it translates to text so]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: ask me something you think I’d lie about, even to you]
> 
> [guyinthechair: ………….. uhhhhh ??]
> 
> [guyinthechair: …hm. I am overwhelmed by all the delicious tea I could get from this]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: nED]
> 
> [guyinthechair: …do you _really_ love star wars, or do you just like it bc I do?]

Holy heck.

Peter could feel his tongue loosen, yet the urge passed into his muscles, right down to the tips of his fingers. So much for his affliction being restricted to speech.

> [im_conCERNed: I’ve always kinda liked star trek better if I had to pick, but I really really like watching SW w/you.]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: …sorry ned.]
> 
> [guyinthechair: ]
> 
> [guyinthechair: lol it’s fine dude, I always knew.]
> 
> [guyinthechair: only a little stab of betrayal]
> 
> [guyinthechair: okay srsly tho are you like perma-honest rn? Is that why you’re trying get me to get you to lie? was that a test or something]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: yes I am.]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: may ate me alive]
> 
> [guyinthechair: omfgshefuckindead.gif]

At least sympathy was present. In these trying times he’d take what he could get.

> [guyinthechair: any leads yet?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: just that guy shooting blue beams out of his hands and eyes yesterday. Got me right in the face]
> 
> [guyinthechair: yowchers. But wasn’t that mostly exploding things?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: yeah but if that was the whole story my face would also be exploded.]
> 
> [guyinthechair: you make a fine point sir]
> 
> [guyinthechair: so .. that’s it? Only idea is the asshole who blew up MJ’s fav ice cream shop?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’ll make a list of everything I did yesterday, but idk what else it could be]

Which was where Peter was left, his head swirling, hands frantically typing out a bulleted list of his most recent encounters, whilst Spider-manning or not. He had always possessed a decent memory, but (like everything else) the speed of his recall had improved significantly. Putting that speed to the test was always a surprise. He could remember the smell of burnt popcorn at the third B&E by 89th avenue and Lefferts. The three men were wearing wool and had stocking masks; they used … guns. Regular ones, though one of them was Big and blew through sheetrock with ease.

…Peter was not an expert on firearms. All he had to know was that they hurt when they were fired at him, and often required breaking in half or handing off to the police.

Despite all of his amazing recall abilities, nothing else stood out. Which meant he had to find wherever the police (or whomever picked up people who shot blue light out of their hands and eyes) stashed yesterday’s only enhanced … villain?

That wasn’t really the right word for the guy. Oh well, he blew up a store. He was at the very least criminally negligent.

> [im_conCERNed: seriously he’s the only thing out of the ordinary]
> 
> [guyinthechair: shit.]
> 
> [guyinthechair: well. time to hack the nypd]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: …. Uhhhhh NSA agent who’s listening don’t mind us sir or ma’am I don’t know your gender]
> 
> [guyinthechair: we’re on a secure chat thing, no one’s listening in you boob]
> 
> [guyinthechair: also lol I mean I could but jail would not look good on me]
> 
> [guyinthechair: are there any police officers who don’t hate you?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: good question]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: … i might have one?]

\--

Before he could even attempt talking to his one (1) trustworthy cop, Peter practiced not-lying with Ned. It went as horribly as he predicted.

> [guyinthechair: Tell me who you really are?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: Peter Parker, high school student and resident spider-man ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: crap]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’m a crime-fighting, mutant vigilante who thrives on adrenaline and spite and also I have soft feelings about animals and I’ve considered what it might be like to leap off the empire state building my name’s ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: shit shit shit]
> 
> [guyinthechair: um]
> 
> [guyinthechair: gonna ask u about some of that later when things are less dire]
> 
> [guyinthechair: i’ll try another one]
> 
> [guyinthechair: tell me your identity?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’m a midtown science and tech high school student who mutated when ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’m definitely not Peter Parker’s clone I’m the real deal and ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’m sixteen and I work for Stark Industries outside the law but I don’t get paid so it really is an internship except I don’t do coffee runs and ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: my name’s really peter and I’m biiiiisjsksjksjksjs ]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: ned,,,, I’m going to die.]
> 
> [guyinthechair: man okay so even indirectly this is bad]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: i mean i’m showing up as spider-man so at least these won’t be the first things Yuri asks me, she knows me already]
> 
> [guyinthechair: still??? this is bad????]
> 
> [guyinthechair: again, why aren’t you just talking to Tony Stark about this?]

For one thing, Peter didn’t want to unveil his predicament to someone he had an imperative to lie to.

This was technically everyone but … still.

Soft, white lies. The kind he used on Aunt May, because said person was a Parent™. Stark still kept tabs on him via tracking devices (among other things, like phone calls and texts, which did nothing for Peter’s anxiety), and he’d been a lot less distant since the Coney Island Incident. Peter wasn’t sure what to do with his hero being so directly involved in his life, except appreciate the nice things and try to take it as having someone who was in his corner rather than the good-natured stalking it sort of was. Tony Stark would buy a grocery chain for him without batting an eye if he mentioned he needed eggs; he’d provide Peter with an insane amount of stuff and things because he could and that was apparently how he showed he cared.

Tony Stark was acting suspiciously Dad-like, and it low-key freaked Peter right out. It was truly surreal.

And besides, Detective Yuriko Watanabe was a good egg.

Well. She was whip-smart, ambitious and had some kind of life-goal that involved punching criminals in unfortunate soft places, and she had no qualms working with whomever to bring people to justice, Spider-man included. She had also stated ‘fuck blue lives’ on her twitter and while she’d gotten in trouble for it she also hadn’t been fired or demoted, so Peter wondered if she was secretly a god.

> [im_conCERNed: remember how you totally took apart my suit and hacked it and how if I was in conversation with The Tony Stark this could come up at any point?]
> 
> [guyinthechair: …. so I get not telling Iron Man, cool cool cool cool cool no doubt no doubt no doubt]

A quick hash out with Aunt May about scheduling and homework (with only one segue where he complained for three minutes about how Flash kept switching notecards with him during decathlon practice and it was driving him nuts), and Peter attempted to swing as fast as he could into Manhattan. He felt blessed by the amount of Not Talking he was doing, and the lack of anyone prompting him to speak at all. It felt so peaceful.

But he knew it had to end.

Yuri was found handcuffing a man to a radiator. Peter presumed she wasn’t busy.

“Hey Detective,” he clipped his own sentences short, getting more practiced at keeping his word vomit to a minimum. Peter greeted her after he pulled one final flip, and perched on the fire escape of the building. Karen tended to keep track of his favorite people for him, doing so by riding on several different frequencies at all hours and not telling Mr. Stark about it. Police scanners were also kept on-watch.

Karen was his favorite mythical creature.

The detective’s bob haircut whipped around smartly, and her eyes widened. She seemed less annoyed than usual, which was a good sign. “Spider-man! What are you doing here?” Yuri tightened the handcuffs, ignoring the pained noise of her perp, and made her way to the open window, poking her head out to greet him. “Need something from this one?”

“Actually no – uh – I just need a favor. Well. Info. If you don’t mind. Not that I’d ever expect you to hand over information just because I asked. Or favors.”

Oh please Thor, strike him down.

To her credit, Yuri simply raised both eyebrows. “Right…well, I’m all ears. What are you looking into?”

“A guy was kind of mid-destruction in Queens earlier yesterday. Kinda ruined a stationary store and an ice cream shop. A friend of mine loved that place,” _Veer! Veer back into simple facts!_ “Anyway, he was shooting blue light and exploding things. Figured he’d strike a chord?”

“I heard,” Yuri confirmed, smiling a little. “Not every day you run into someone like that. Though it’s becoming distressingly more common. Weren’t you there? Why do you _want_ to find him again?”

“Was there.” Peter visibly struggled, but there was no way to stop him from answering. “But I think he’s put … um. …I think….” He really, honestly tried, but it actually caused him pain to keep his mouth shut. Something that hadn’t happened before, and despite the tiny slice of agony, Peter appreciated the data. “I think he cursed me.”

 ** _Shit_**.

Yuri was appropriately taken aback by the absurdity. Peter wished he could be that skeptical. “I’m sorry?”

“I think he cursed me. I need to find him.”

“Curses are real now.”

“Curses, and magic, are very frustrating, and apparently very, very real,” Peter confirmed, saying this with great ease and equal parts vehemence. “Or maybe not. Maybe it’s not a curse but it’s definitely giving me a panic attack every time I open my mouth.”

Too close on that one.

Yuri, a wholesome but impatient woman, raised an eyebrow. “He’s being held for transfer to a different holding location.”

“Can you tell me where they’re –,”

“No,” Yuri grumped, and then twisted her current suspect’s arm when he tried to make a grab at her belt. Both of the unbound occupants of the room ignored the scream that occurred. “They didn’t tell me either. I just know he’s in transit until they have a location for him. He’s apparently been out of it since you conked him on the head.”

Normally, Peter would feel a small twinge of sympathy. However, considering his current state, he felt a nice cold vindictiveness run through him instead.

“Well, thanks anyway,” he said without an ounce of sarcasm. “I’ll keep looking for an in.”

“Good luck, I think,” Yuri chirped before shaking her perp once again, who whimpered.

At least someone was having a good day.

\--

So, the NYPD were out of the loop, to no one’s surprise. Not that Peter usually dealt with the police at all, (Yuri really was the exception), due to some heavy skepticism and no small amount of ill-buried rage, but since a few years back, a lot of weird shit (long before Spider-man was _one_ with the weird shit) no longer resided within the NYPD’s purview.

Which meant the feds were involved. Which meant that Peter had one place he could to turn to for answers and probably get them with minimum fuss.

But he wasn’t gonna.

Avoiding the most obvious choice, he did what he did best: find criminals to punch until the sun went down. It went far more efficiently than usual, mostly because he didn’t give himself time to talk, nor the various vagrants time to goad him into talking. For some reason, when no repartee was provided, everyone was alarmed into obedience.

Unfortunately, by then he was starting to chafe under a lack of progress. Peter decided perhaps he needed to, sigh, talk to people who might know how to get his shit sorted. Or at least give him a good starting point.

Hell’s Kitchen was territory he usually knew better than to roam without alerting its local gargoyle first, but he liked to think they’d become friendly. _Friends_ was a ways off, but Peter couldn’t help but consider Daredevil a weirdly aggressive compatriot who also hated The Man. Something about parkouring around one of the more heavily mobbed-up neighborhoods in a red (black? Then red? Then black??), horned costume really spoke to Peter. It said “I Don’t Care I Will Fight You” in big bold neon.

Peter was on board with Daredevil, even if Daredevil wasn’t _necessarily_ on board with Spider-man.

Speak, or think loudly of him, however, and he shall appear. Peter had no idea how the man’s whole thing worked, but he could theorize with Ned about it à la Buzzfeed Unsolved and that was all he needed in the interim.

“Hey DD,” he once again cut himself short. Or tried do. “I was worried you’d died.”

This was said with such genuine concern that Daredevil actually stopped and turned to stare at him. “What kind of greeting is that?”

“It’s one that gets you to talk to me, so I figure it’s a good one,” Peter did not smoothly cover himself at all there, way to go. “You hear about that guy shooting blue light and exploding harmless small businesses in Queens?”

“Certainly. I make it my business to know everything that goes on in New York’s wildly diverse boroughs.”

A steady heartbeat of silence occurred before Peter pouted, an expression he knew he could radiate out from behind the mask. “You don’t have to be an ass. I need your help.”

And that was already too much, damn it, but Peter couldn’t afford to be hindered in his quest for answers. Not even if it was by his own self. No matter if made him sound like a whiny teenager.

 _But you ARE a teenager_ , echoed Ned’s voice in his head, which he staunchly ignored.

At this statement, however, Daredevil’s head tilted curiously. “You do. In which case I’ll say that I have seen the news, and that’s about as much as I know.”

“Nothing about where they took him? I mean, we _know_ where he’s gonna go, but I just need to know where he is right now. It’s been a rough morning and I have questions before he gets black-bagged by the feds.”

“I’ve been a little busy here,” Daredevil responded, cool in tone but still radiating curiosity for some reason. “I’m surprised you could make it out to stop the guy on a school night.”

It was a running joke, of course, that until Peter _grew into his height thank you_ he was considered a runt. Even if much of the New York vigilantes had seen enough video evidence of him to know otherwise. Like his holding together the Staten Island ferry. _Oh wow – really Brain? Thanks for reminding me about that shitshow_.

Unfortunately, Peter’s new Affliction didn’t care if he took these jokes in stride usually because even if they were genial for the most part, they still hit way too close to home. It didn’t really care if he was biting his cheek so hard he could taste the sweet flavor of iron trickling down his throat.

“I had a decathlon competition!” he finally almost shouted, his chest burning from trying to hold his breath. His whole body stung with pain. “Yes, I know I’m a nerd, please don’t bring it up in professional conversation. Which this is. This is a professional conversation you and I are having, because we’re professionals. One might argue professional nutcases, but nonetheless I doubt either of us can afford the therapy we so desperately need.” He gulped air back into his lungs at the end there.

Daredevil, to his credit was standing so still Peter might have mistaken him for a cardboard cut-out. He said nothing.

“And that’s besides the fact that you all say I’m like twelve, which I’m obviously not, I kinda take that personal, you know? Do _you_ go around knowing what everyone’s been through? I don’t think so – so maybe take that back a notch, huh?”

Wow, maybe he did have some underlying salt there.

“I see,” Daredevil says, accepting this statement with superficial ease, and a calm that wasn’t at all real. Peter could practically hear the man’s whole body vibrating. “I will endeavor to not to judge. Are your teammates alright?”

“Sure they are! I saved them, didn’t I?” snapped Peter, or possibly the extraterrestrial being who had taken control of Peter’s soul to speak for him. Now he was having an out-of-body experience, losing all awareness of the connection between his brain and mouth. He just hears himself say things at the same time anyone else does.

Only belatedly did he realize what he’d just confessed to.

 _Shit fuck no no no no no this is my nightmare_. “I’m cursed, okay? I’m cursed, or I’m mind-whammied, or I’m drugged, but either way I cannot keep going around telling everyone my backstory like this, now will you just _help me_.”

“You haven’t started on your backstory.”

“I’m not telling you anything about myself right now on purpose, and if you make me with an explicit question I will follow up with a dedicated attempt to beat your ass into the pavement you giant jerk.”

Okay, so, he’d never _been_ this outwardly hostile to any other hero like this, but his last nerve had disintegrated and Peter was officially losing it.

“I know,” Daredevil said, in a tone Peter had never heard before. “I believe you.” Oh no, that was a soft voice. That was a pre-pity voice. Peter _hated_ pity.

“I am _not_ ,” he hissed in response, not unlike a cat, “enjoying the fact that this is what gets you to be nice to me, you turd. I can’t believe you’re so competent and that I look up to you, what the hell does that say about me?” Peter continued to ramble and he was fairly certain he was actually crying from frustration. The illusion of agency he’d been holding onto was starting to fade, and all it left behind was the broken, bruised remnants of his super-ego.

“I’m really not that competent,” Daredevil assured, and it was so sincere it silenced any and all other thoughts in Peter’s admittedly fast-deteriorating brain. “And I will help you. But outside of some very niche, cult-related mysticism, I’m not too familiar with this territory of trouble. You should probably talk to,” and it was here that Peter watched the man at once sneer and sigh with his whole being. “Iron Fist.”

“Danny,” Peter said with as much control as he could muster. “Has always been very nice to me. Perfect gentlemen with a strange mental affliction.”

“That’s a descriptor that could apply to most of us.” Daredevil didn’t even flinch. “Come on – I know where to catch him this time of night.”

And Peter followed, swallowing back his stupefaction and horror without agony for once, swinging and praying that maybe he’d accidentally slam into a building on the way there and end this horrorshow.

“Has anyone told you,” Peter’s traitorous host body uttered into the wind, “that you smell like lavender and bay leaves and chai?”

“Maybe you should think about literally anything else.”

\--

Jessica Jones was not someone he wanted to meet like this. He loved and feared her. Just as he feared and loved himself. And MJ, sometimes, when daring to debate her on caffeine and self-care.

She just happened to be trying to escape Danny Rand, who – for an independently wealthy white guy – was passing himself off very well as a hermetic monk. Aside from the curly head of blonde hair, of course. And the fashionable poor-hipster clothes look that Peter _knew_ existed only in the expensive vintage shops of Hipster Hell, i.e. Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Well, he didn’t own a penthouse that he actually _used_ , so it was a step in the right direction.

Peter adamantly did not think about Tony Stark.

“Hey asshole,” Jessica’s greeting to Daredevil was strangely cheerful, considering what her face was doing. “Get him away from me.”

“It’s your fault for having a known address,” DD replied with complete aplomb. “Danny, we need your advice.”

“You need _his_ advice?”

“You need _my_ advice?” echoed the man in question, who just seemed happy to be involved.

 _Golden retriever_ , thought Peter before he set fire to the idea and continued forth. “I do, actually,” Peter said from his hiding spot above their heads, hanging upside down because he wanted to maybe have all the blood rush into his head and give him a stroke. “But whatever. Hey Jess.”

“Don’t call me that, kid.”

Before Peter could open his mouth, Daredevil came in on the assist. “It’s a matter of urgency, unfortunately. Our compatriot has gotten himself possibly magicked. I don’t deal with that.” And there was something in his voice that hinted at a much deeper case of the heebie jeebies. “Thought you might know. What with your whole. Thing.”

“The monks taught me many Truths about this plane and all that passes between,” Danny said, and Peter could just _hear_ the capital ‘T’ on that word. “I am as well versed as I can be on the matters of spiritual awakening, and the nature of nirvana and how any being can channel chi, though perhaps not as I do.”

Oh my god, this guy.

“I cannot,” Peter was trying so hard, he really, really was. “Listen to that. But I believe you so much, you know? A lot of believing happening over here. Very impressive,” and he was being genuine there, despite his dire need to make that sound sarcastic – his body just wasn’t having it. “You know anything about curses?”

Jessica chuffed in disbelief.

“He’s telling the truth, or thinks he is. Either way, it’s something real,” Daredevil came – once again – to his rescue, startling Peter into what he hoped was the beginning of a catatonic state. Well, considering he just handed a relatively smart person the keys to his actual identity, maybe that was proof enough for the man to take him seriously.

“This asshat knows mysticism, not straight-up Harry Potter magic, shut up, there’s a difference,” Jessica interrupted. “I think you want to talk to someone else.”

“She’s right, in a sense,” Danny admitted. “My area of expertise was all about what we could do with discipline and training. I didn’t wave a wand or say incantations. Usually.”

“Usually! Oh that’s not encouraging at all,” Peter said, more loudly than was necessary.

Danny had the temerity to look a little hurt by that.

“It’s okay, you and your money will figure it out,” Peter continued, unbidden. “Where should I go?” he addressed Jessica point-blank, who seemed to look upon him with a growing interest that absolutely did not bode well. He didn’t often ask her for anything, choosing to ply her with occasional coffees (it wasn’t like he could offer her liquor) when he swung by in his late evening runs. Usually he kept to being a fly on her wall. Spider. Whatever.

“I’ve heard some weird rumors about a haunted manor or library or something on Bleecker Street. Can’t tell you if it’ll help. Something about guys popping in and out of ‘portals’ in broad daylight, but it’s been a few months.”

“Shouldn’t you ask Stark? Aren’t you guys buddy-buddy?” Danny asked, showing a keenness that Peter did not appreciate or expect at this juncture.

Peter once again nearly bit his cheek in frustration.

Spider-man and Tony Stark had a public enough relationship that it had inadvertently burned many bridges before he’d even got the logs to build them. Something about being cozy with the world’s most well-known multinational businessman-slash-government contractor and signatory on the Accords, set a lot of other vigilantes on edge. Peter did his best, trying to off-set those optics by remaining close to the ground and generally being open-minded about anyone not wearing an animal-based costume (once the news kicked in their two cents on The Vulture and started calling Toomes as such, Peter’s natural biases cemented themselves). He _was_ trying to be friendly.

It didn’t usually work. No one else but Peter bothered to hide the huge chip(s) on their shoulders. And now he couldn’t even do that much.

“I don’t really bother him with this kind of thing,” which was absolutely the truth and happened to earn him points in this crowd. Peter mentally sighed in relief, even as Daredevil threw him a sharp glance. “He’s a busy guy and we aren’t that buddy-buddy,” something he believed was true, despite the strange mix of relief and crushing disappointment at the thought.

The whole thing was a hornet’s nest, and exactly what he was hoping not to poke today. Or tomorrow. Or until he could speak without insulting his friends, his allies, and himself. Just perhaps.

“Right,” Jessica raised her hand in a somehow sarcastic wave. “I’m Audi five thou – you guys are on your own.”

“Always lovely to see you Jessica,” Daredevil said, with a surprising amount of charm. Peter hadn’t heard him _ever_ use that voice and felt a little tickled that his estimation about the man being funny wasn’t far off the mark.

“Fuck off horns.”

“Thank you, Jessica,” Peter once again sounded so heartfelt, the woman half-turned in mild surprise before she flipped him off. Genially.

He could tell it was genial.

Danny was, as ever, undeterred. “Do you still need guidance on matters of the spiritual?” Peter was sure he saw a tailwag. He was _so sure_.

“Not from you,” Daredevil muttered very much under his breath at the same time Peter said, “It’s fine, but maybe don’t bug Jessica anymore, she might try to squash you. You’re very nice, and I feel like I’d get along with you if I wasn’t always working when we meet up,” _I hate this, I hate this, I hate this._ “Bye I guess,” he rushed out and catapulted himself away from the awkward he was sure he’d created.

To his surprise, Daredevil accompanied him to the edge of his territory after they left Danny behind.

“He’s got kind of a sunny smell. Lemon? I think it’s lemon and sandalwood,” Peter said, hating himself just a little bit more. “Maybe he’s got an essential oil collection. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Ignoring that,” Daredevil kindly diverted the stream of words that had been ready to pour forth. “Are you sure you don’t need duct tape?”

“Oh, for my mouth, ha ha, you’re very witty. Hilarious. You must think you’re great at parties.”

“I’m actually serious.”

Peter, mulish, shrugged aggressively. “Doesn’t work like that. I have to talk or it starts to hurt. Pain in the lungs and throat – like fire, but way less fun. Did I say fun? I meant obvious and fun. Way less,” he struggled to just … stop, and found he could at least derail his own thoughts to switch topics. “Any way doesn’t work. I have to talk if you ask me to talk. And even when I’m not asked. I sincerely hate this, so much,” he groused near the end, feeling justifiably exhausted by it all. “Why are you even helping me, you think I’m a pain.”

And now he felt even more tired. Maybe he’d just pass out on a roof somewhere and this could fade away, like a terrible dream.

A long pause grew between them. When too many heartbeats had passed, Peter finally forced his gaze back to Daredevil's.

Daredevil looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re not a pain. I don’t think that, in any case.”

“Maybe not anymore,” Peter said, unwilling to continue the conversation but fully unable to stop.

“Not anymore,” the man repeated, voice less lined with spikes than usual. Peter realized with a start that there was no pity this time. “I can’t stick around, but if you need help … you can ask.”

Of course it was this mess that put him on friendlier terms with someone whose respect he’d been trying to earn for months and months. Of course it had to be after the man realized he was a teenager, and that everything he’d ever done was now undermined by his age instead of his wealthy industrialist associate. Of _course_.

He was allowed to be bitter. Except he wasn’t. Regardless, he made a sharp noise, something between incredulity and anger and liberation. Then he exhaled.

“If you want to, I’d be happy about it,” Peter continued, after the rage died down. He was of course, soft-voiced and true to his nature: he was grateful, even if he wasn’t obligated like being so. “But you don’t have to. I get that you’re busy.”

“Unless I’m dead, I’m not too busy.” The man seemed to settle, head cocking just slightly away from their conversation near the end. “Be careful.”

Peter nodded, and watched Daredevil jump between buildings, leaving him behind.

\--

> [guyinthechair: have any luck?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: well I’m pretty sure Daredevil knows I can’t smoke or drink legally yet, so you could say I’m having zero luck. in short, the usual]
> 
> [guyinthechair: …BRUH]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: trying not to think about it or i’ll puke]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: having flashbacks to when Mr. Stark showed up at my apartment and flirted with aunt may and knew about my night shifts]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: did I ever tell you I nearly had a panic attack while he was in the room?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I mean I turned it into like, energy later, but I was messed up pretty good after he left]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: I’m telling you too much again Ned, even if I love you I really don’t want to tell you about this stuff, and how it kinda messes with my entire idea of security and being able to protect you and aunt may and]
> 
> [guyinthechair: Peter it’s okay]
> 
> [guyinthechair: shit, man, I love you too okay? I told you im here for you]
> 
> [guyinthechair: I’m sorry you don’t have control right now]
> 
> [guyinthechair: but ur gonna fix this]
> 
> [guyinthechair: maybe we can’t find the guy, but maybe someone can fix you? I know that’s kind of pushin it trust-wise but you know, beggars can’t be choosers and all that]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: Jessica had a lead about a weird house on Bleecker]
> 
> [guyinthechair: ‘weird’?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: better than nothing. Which is what I otherwise have right now]
> 
> [guyinthechair: you gonna head to manhattan? You told your aunt right?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: yeah she knows it’s not about getting injured right now. I mean it’s not about going out and fixing everyone’s problems but my own. I mean it’s not about … fdkjl]
> 
> [guyinthechair: Peter I get it. I’ll keep her posted too okay? I’ll try not to bug you too much]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: you’ve never bugged me ever. thanks though]

\--

Manhattan wasn’t quiet.

Because this was true on every day that ended with the letter ‘y’, regardless of the hour, Peter immediately knew something was horribly wrong. All of his senses were numbed down to what probably was once his baseline. It felt like being plunged under water, and it only started once he swung uptown past sixth avenue. He nearly stumbled when it happened, and had to trot himself across a few roofs without the aid of webbing, just to make sure he hadn’t secretly gotten a concussion.

There was, despite the fact that he felt a little dumb at the moment, a small racing sharpness up and down his spine, settling at the base of his neck.

 _Alright. Not haunted, or very haunted? There’s no such thing as ghosts, probably. Maybe. Aunt May always swore they used to have one in the apartment she had with Uncle Ben before they moved to Forest Hills, but that doesn’t matter right now_. _And what, would it be a whole damn street? Just Bleecker street, sitting around being super haunted and no one noticing until now? Unlikely._

_Just as unlikely as it being haunted in the first place, man I am just not using my brain at all, am I?_

Upon first hitting the ceiling of one of the few things on this block that could be called ‘manoresque,’ Peter felt oddly sedated.

Everything was fine. He just needed to go downstairs and ring the doorbell.

No? No he could sneak in. He knew how to sneak, honest.

_It would be a lot easier to just ring the doorbell and see who lived here. Only polite._

Hmm…debatable. There were plenty of vents. Also lots of windows.

_It’d be better if you weren’t all dressed up like that. No one who lives here means you harm. You should be honest; take off your mask!_

A raw nerve had been hit. Somehow, Peter had nearly played himself, and he’d almost been happy to do it.

The whiplash snapped his spine straight, and he choked. “Hh,” he wanted to scream, but staunchly did not. The sedation ebbed as sharply as his head shook, trying to rid himself of that cloying voice in his head. “Stop it,” he muttered to absolutely no one. “Stop that.”

At the very tail end of his words, the world seemed to crackle around him, shards of reality breaking into smaller pieces, every snap echoing in the strange new world unfolding before him. Mirrors of the sky and the earth below. A bright red flash of light zipped through the air and wrapped around his left wrist like a very angry snap bracelet. Across from him, over the dome of stained glass he was only just now noticing, there was a hazy figure, mostly invisible to the naked eye.

‘ _No signal on this one Peter, there’s no technology around to sustain such an illusion_ ,’ he heard Karen’s running tally in his ear and felt a fury envelop him. All of this – the curse, the weird brainwashing, the splintering of the world around him – had started with some half-mad guy at an ice cream store. His verbal diarrhea, and all the humiliation that followed, had been nothing short of bad luck and worse timing. And it had led to this very moment.

Peter knew that this – this farce, this _lunacy_ – could possibly herald the moment of his death. And it pissed him off enormously.

“Hey!” he yelled, feeling his cheeks heat with both rage and absolutely zero tolerance. With a lot more strength than he usually bothered using, he grabbed part of the red ribbon of light trying to scald its way through his costume and tugged it closer. It started to smoke around the palm of his hand, but he saw the hazy figure jerk sharply toward him and knew he’d struck gold. “I just wanna talk!”

And then he pulled down.

\--

“That stained glass was hundreds of years old.”

Peter spit out some blood, lifting just the bottom portion of his mask to do so. “So are your manners,” he retorted without any apology whatsoever.

Wong, who was named as such after he’d opened the door of the manor/library/whatever-this-place-was and saw Spider-man and the now-named Dr. Stephen Strange having a major tussle in the middle of a bunch of very unstable magical artifacts, made a noise that suspiciously sounded like laughter.

Dr. Strange gave Wong a sharp look, but rubbed his jaw as Wong proceeded offer Peter a hot towel, which Peter graciously accepted. Wong was a good egg. Peter would accept a good egg in these trying times. “You hit surprisingly hard for someone your size,” the man muttered, not quite mulish but at least perturbed.

“Didn’t give me much of a reason not to,” Peter responded, words clipped. He was still very peeved about having his brain kneaded like bagel dough. “You shouldn’t have asked for that.”

“Asked for what?”

“For me to take off my mask. You shouldn’t have tried to mess with my head like that, man. It’s why I’m even here in the first place,” Peter complained, and accepted the tea from Wong before pausing. “This isn’t some other trick right? Coffee and tea are sacred, you don’t fuck with coffee and tea,” and now he sounded like he was begging, which was a fine little sprinkle of terrible to this whole situation.

“I would never harm tea,” Wong promised, his solemnity attractive to Peter at this point, because frankly he needed people to get on his level. “I give you my word, you’re safe here. Now. You’re safe _now_.”

“I didn’t specifically ask you anything. It’s a mechanism of the spell.” Dr. Strange answered, then sighed very deeply. “Why _are_ you here?” _And how can I make you leave_ , was the unspoken portion of that question.

Peter opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the cape Dr. Strange was wearing, which had decided to flap over to him and curl gently around his shoulders.

Everyone took a moment to digest this.

“…Is it going to try and eat me? Ow! Don’t slap me, fabric, I’ve had a really shitty day, and literally anything is possible!”

“It doesn’t talk,” Dr. Strange said, oh so helpfully.

“I just said _anything is possible_ ,” Peter bit out, “because magic is very real, like I theorized earlier this morning when I couldn’t stop telling people the truth. This whole place smells like if you dipped the New York Public Library in five spice and honey. You and mis- St- To-Tony need to compete about your beards.” Oof, that had hurt. He rubbed a hand on his chest, trying to soothe the burning sensation.

Dr. Strange blinked, finally wrong-footed. He opened his mouth and closed it several times before settling on, “You think you’ve been bewitched?”

“Obviously. I’m – I’m not – I’ve got a mask on right now; you really think I wouldn’t know if I was just having a really ‘I need to be true to myself’ kind of day? I keep secrets basically for a living, dude! Cut me a little slack.” He paused. “I didn’t exactly have the time and resources to test if someone had just injected me with truth serum or whatever, but I know what that’s supposed to feel like and this is not it.” The cape tightened around his shoulders, as if in encouragement or sympathy. Peter couldn’t bother to be weirded out by it, he was so flipping tired.

The man considered him seriously for a moment, before holding out a trembling hand. Light gathered hypnotically around his fingers, dancing into esoteric shapes before collapsing into dust. “It appears you’re not entirely wrong.”

“Oh not entirely. Good. Glad I didn’t waste a whole day trying to figure this out before I have to go to school on Monday, fuck! Fuck I didn’t mean to say that – sorry for swearing I’m really – I’m bushed.” The mask, which had sat just above his jaw was jerked down hurriedly after this statement, but not before everyone with eyes saw how flushed his neck had gotten.

Wong exchanged a stoic look with Dr. Strange, which held for an ominous length of time. “There’s a unique signature to it. I think it might only be undone by that which ensorcelled him it in the first place.”

“It’s not anything human. It feels like an enchantment that’s spread and housed itself within his soul, but it certainly wasn’t done on purpose,” Wong offered.

Normally it’d be considered rude to be talked about in the third person, while he was present for the conversation. But Peter really had nothing left in him to care. He just wanted answers. “Right. I don’t know where the guy who did this to me, probably, is. No one does. Maybe. Probably someone does. I don’t want to talk to them though, not like this.”

Of course the next question out of the doctor’s mouth was of course, “Who do you think knows?”

“Mr. Stark,” because he was asked, and Peter didn’t want to fight anymore. “Tony Stark. You might know him. I could reach out, but I don’t want to talk to him. I can barely talk to myself like this. You can imagine.”

A small, dissatisfied grimace graced Strange’s face. “Quite.”

“He really doesn’t make friends easy, does he?” Peter asked no one, feeling a mite ashamed of his avoidance tactics. It wasn’t like he hated Mr. Stark or anything like that. But there were some lines that both he and the man had crossed by accident and it was not easy to walk back towards the kindly distance they used to have after Germany. And then there was the question of if he actually wanted that.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, I try not to judge,” lied Dr. Strange, and Peter glared pointedly in his direction. For one, he didn’t really enjoy strange magical men shitting on people he actually had just barely begun to have a rapport with. For two, the _ease_ with which the man didn’t tell the truth made him mad with envy.

“Don’t lie to me right now, because I can’t lie to you. At least do that for me, will you?” he didn’t plead. “I don’t care if your facial hair game is on point, or if your cape likes me more than you do, just don’t be a jerk just because you can.”

The cape gently held a portion of itself up against his mouth. Then patted twice in a very obvious ‘there, there’ manner.

“At least the cape likes me,” Peter didn’t bother holding back, words muffled.

\--

> [guyinthechair: so you need the actual guy? You need to break him out of whatever federal custody he’s in and bring him to some haunted house on Bleecker street so a wizard can help unmagic the both of you, potentially? Am I tracking this right?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: yes]
> 
> [guyinthechair: and you don’t want to talk to Iron Man?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: no]
> 
> [guyinthechair: fuck’s sake]
> 
> [guyinthechair: get your ass home then – I’m going to make you go talk to Stark tomorrow and you’re gonna hate me nagging so much you’ll actually go.]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: can’t go home. aunt may is at home. she’ll ask me questions and I’ll break her heart]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: can I bunk with you]
> 
> [guyinthechair: uh]
> 
> [guyinthechair: maybe?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: what do you mean maybe]
> 
> [guyinthechair: uhhhhh you remember me and MJ had a training session for the team on monday? And that we needed to prep for it on the weekend?]
> 
> [guyinthechair: she’s still here, actually.]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: ned]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: ned i’m so tired]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: spiritually, physically, emotionally, mentally, and physically]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: tired]
> 
> [guyinthechair: so you’re saying you’ll risk it?]
> 
> [guyinthechair: really? You sure?]
> 
> [im_conCERNed: i might commit actual deadly crime if I’m not allowed some measure of comfort or peace and quiet with people I can trust ned]
> 
> [guyinthechair: that’s a Texas-sized 10-4 good buddy]

\--

“So,” MJ offered, deadly serious. “This has completely taken away your agency, hasn’t it?”

Because peace was 1) hard to come by in his life and 2) Peter had a feeling this was going to happen, even without the mask or hard evidence, so he pre-empted MJ a little bit, not feeling guilty about it at all at this point – MJ was given the full story, which Ned seemed incredibly at ease about. It was almost anticlimactic. Peter had simply walked into the living room of Ned’s home, spotted MJ’s eyes widening in surprise and said “hey guess who almost swung into a billboard on the way here,” in greeting, like you know, an idiot, and things progressed from there.

Peter knew he should have been angrier at himself. More shocked, perhaps. But he had invited this one, so he was simply reaping what he sowed.

“Yeah it’s been the absolute worst. I don’t like lying, but I need to lie to keep people safe. It’s not a good or noble thing, it’s just what it is,” he was lying on the floor, talking to the ceiling, unable to look anyone in the eye. “I love the smell of your home Ned. It always smells like adobo seasoning and fried rice in here and seriously I wish me or my aunt could learn how to cook because I’d give a kidney to be as good as your moms on their worst day.”

“Thanks dude.”

MJ rubbed her temples. She was taking the revelation of her classmate being a somewhat infamous superhero rather well, all things considered. “I’m so sorry Peter,” she said, though he was certain she wanted to ask them to focus. Peter realized belatedly that she was trying to be honest and not sarcastic, and he felt a bit of his apathy melt away.

“It’s the worst, but you finding out is actually pretty awesome,” he admitted, still looking up at the ceiling. He could feel his face get hot. “You’re smart and you keep secrets so well it’s stupid. Also you’re ridiculously more competent than either of us, and frankly if you’d gotten bit by the spider instead you’d make a kickass superhero on your own.”

Ned made a noise and Peter blatantly ignored it. “Do you use like, honeysuckle or something?” he continued, mortified. “Because that’s all I’m getting from you and it’s weirdly comforting.”

Magnanimous in nature, MJ just shook her head. “You never talk this much, it’s weirding me out.”

“And what’s with you and smelling stuff?” Ned chimed in.

“I can’t help that I notice it first,” Peter exclaimed, unwilling to be made the perpetrator of his own strangeness.

“Focus,” MJ finally uttered, fulfilling the prophecy in Peter’s head. “So, you need Tony Stark’s help to find this potential magic-person,” there was a moment where she had to pause and absorb the full nature of that sentence. “Hell. Or mutant. Enhanced. Unsure of the verbiage there. Either way – you need his help to get yourself cured.”

“Except that Mr. Stark knows way too much about me as is. I’m not. I don’t want to tell him more. He hasn’t earned it,” Peter choked out, face paling as he realized the truth of it. He’d been struggling not to say it, even before this whole debacle, and here it was, spilling out of him regardless. “God, I don’t want him to just think that putting trackers in my suit,” and it was _his_ suit now, officially, but only because he’d cleaned it out again immediately after it had been fully repaired and returned to him. “And having a file on me, and flirting with my Aunt and just waltzing into my life whenever he wants grants him access to _knowing_ me. I don’t know anything about him, and he could have me run out of the country tomorrow if I do anything he doesn’t like. Not that he would. Not that I think he would. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Was he crying? Kinda. Did he care? Not nearly enough.

“I couldn’t say no. But I didn’t want to. Couldn’t want to. You know?”

He trailed off when he realized he hadn’t heard a peep from his friends, and dared to shift his gaze towards them, sheepish.

MJ was staring at him with a pinched expression, her cheeks dark and her posture unamused. Ned seemed both resigned and wary, looking a little guilty all things considered.

“He did _what_ -?” MJ started, looking ready to tear someone a new hole, while Ned waved his hands, almost frantic and whisper-yelled: “He’s still your best option!” The two of them looked at each other in surprise, and then away again.

Miraculously, this response actually did leave Peter speechless.

“Look, I guess it is the best option,” MJ explained, her voice straining from the patience she was obviously not used to showing anyone. “That man has the most resources of anyone ever, and you’ve exhausted the ones on the ground here. Dr. Strange,” and she paused, chewing the name over in her mind with no small measure of incredulity. “Said that the only way to reverse this was to get the guy who did it over to him so he could puzzle it out. There’s no other way.”

Peter tried to find a way to say no before his shoulders slumped. Logic, his own wont, and the desire to just End This won out in the end.

“Fine,” Peter conceded. “Can I leave now?” At the baulk on MJ’s face, he huffed, not bothering to hide how grumpy he was. “You think I want to wait? Also, he was happy enough to take me out of school and fly me across a whole ocean. He can handle a late-night phone call or meeting or whatever. But I’m only doing this because you’re very cute when you’re being earnest, and I really need to stop saying these things out loud as soon as possible.”

“Yes, let’s,” Ned agreed cheerfully, closing the tabs they’d opened and regarded the new team with an excited twinkle in his eyes while MJ finally – _finally_ – blushed. Obviously against her will.

“Oh no,” Peter said with knowing, and growing, irritation. He stood and pointed a staying finger at their shocked faces. “No, no, no, you guys are _not_ gonna be with me. Either Ned will see something shiny and wander off in its general direction, or MJ’ll see something that has been vaguely discriminated against in some benign way, and I’ll end up having to save your lives because that’s how my luck usually runs. Honestly, I really can’t be bothered to do it tonight, alright? I can’t believe how rude I’m being....”

“Look, we’re with you whether you like it or not,” Ned shut his laptop, ending his sentence with finality.

“No such thing as _benign_ discrimination,” MJ muttered, raising an eyebrow. She sounded amused at least.

“Alright. Good,” Peter groaned, completely switching his point of view. “It’d be embarrassing on my own; Mr. Stark might think I’m incompetent _and_ unlovable. And you smell amazing, Ned. Clean laundry and rain. Would you mind killing me now?”

“No,” Ned said firmly, at once embarrassed and trying not to laugh. MJ had stopped trying. “But I’ll refrain.”

\--

Happy Hogan answered the phone.

Peter hadn’t actually called in a long while. Not since Coney Island, really. To the man’s credit, he’d texted back, far less short-tempered and far drier about things, starting from scratch more or less. Awkward whenever Peter dared send him a meme, but accepting at least. A bridge had mended, though Peter did remind himself somewhat spitefully that he hadn’t been the one to set fire to it in the first place.

“Kid? It’s like two in the morning. This had better be important.”

“I can’t lie,” Peter greeted, his voice cool and confident for once. “And I need Mr. Stark to break someone out of federal custody for me and a wizard so they can lift the curse. So I can lie again.”

“…If this is another one of your meems, I’m seriously not in the mood.”

“And I seriously cannot lie to you Happy,” Peter continued. “I can’t lie right now. Do _not_ ask me anything or I’ll have to tell you and I’ll be pissed if you go ahead and ask anyway. Just trust me. D’you think I’d call you if it wasn’t important?”

There was a soft shuffling noise over the phone, cut through with static. “Mn. Sorry, kid,” which was not a response Peter was expecting. “I know you don’t call unless it’s important. I’ll let him know and he’ll get back to you tonight.”

“Really? Tonight?” He’d talked a lot of bluster earlier about waking the man up, but honestly he’d been fully prepared to wait.

“Boss never sleeps, and when he does it’s not for long. Don’t worry, he’ll make you a priority.”

Huh. Peter hadn’t known that. He tried not to consider the last sentence at all.

“You’re really not gonna ask me more questions?”

“I trust you,” Happy yawned into the receiver. “Well, I trust ya enough anyway.”

“Thanks Happy.”

“No problem. Whatever’s goin’ on with you, just stay put and stay safe. We can come to you if we need to.”

\--

Tony Stark arrived in quiet flourish, pulling up to Ned’s home looking like he’d just woken up, nearly spritely with energy.

Honest to Jehovah, Peter felt older than his bones at the sight. How? What did the man drink? It couldn’t just be coffee. He knew it wasn’t alcohol. Maybe meth. Maybe not meth. Either way, it was ghastly and made Peter mad on principle.

Ned was nearly beside himself, but with MJ glowering over everyone _except_ Peter, he kept his mouth closed and hustled to make tea. According to Ned, which was actually according to Chesa, Ned’s parental unit who was blissfully away at the moment, it helped with all manner of situations.

Peter figured he could use the help.

“So, a wizard, a curse, and a suspected enhanced individual walk into an ice cream shop,” Stark hummed to himself. “I dunno, as a joke it could use some tweaks.”

“It’s not ideal,” Peter agreed, about far more than that. “I just want to go to school on Monday and not blurt out what might be a state secret at this point? I don’t know what you’ve filed me as, and honestly at this point I don’t want to ask.”

Stark, who’d tucked himself into the couch Peter remembers playing nerf gun tag on when he was thirteen, raised his eyebrows.

“Also I’m not sorry, but whatever cologne you use is just a _lot_ do you do that on purpose?”

“Yes,” Stark answered, equally honest, and looking more amused than upset. “I like messing with people. It’s a bad habit I’ll never break willingly.” He accepted the cup of tea from Ned’s outstretched hands, mixing disinterest with gratitude into a nod somehow. Yet he didn’t drink from it, endeavoring to hold the ceramic atop his knee instead.

“You believe me, right?” Peter let his eyes focus on the cup.

“I’ve seen weirder things. What’s magic but one more thing to add to the list of crazy in my rolodex?”

“I wouldn’t make this up. I don’t think I have the imagination to make this up,” Peter continued. “I didn’t even think magic was a real thing that existed until this morning.”

“Could still be science,” Stark countered, though not aggressively. “Still. You seem to have found yourself an expert. I’m just the fixer in this scenario.” The man had the unnerving habit of searching out and locking into uncomfortable eye contact. Something about establishing dominance in a conversation, perhaps, but Peter either squirmed or burned under such scrutiny. He could never manage that level of confidence.

“Yeah. Well.” Peter absolutely had something to add, but fought against it like he hadn’t since his stint in Hell’s Kitchen. God it hurt, it _hurt_.

“Have something on your mind?”

To everyone’s surprise, Stark had done as Peter requested a short while into their initial meet and greet, mere inches from the front entrance, with Peter laying out what he knew before the door even closed (unwise, but he was Tired™). He’d taken out what could barely be described as a phone and blithely requested what he termed ‘a second look’ at the man who’d been ferried out of Queens yesterday afternoon. There was some other bullshit Peter _knew_ he hadn’t asked about or inferred, but right now, it was whatever worked toward a cure that counted.

Now Peter felt flat-footed. He could feel MJ staring at the back of his head from the kitchen, but ignored her. He wasn’t sweating bullets yet, but he could feel himself tense regardless.

“Don’t,” he started, then stopped. “Thank you. For helping me.” He could feel that same strangling sensation, burning through the capillaries in his lungs. “But I need – I need to know you – you can’t … you can’t …” he choked, coughing and was surprised to taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Pete – ”

“I know your net worth and how many patents you hold, and what kind of cars you like to buy. I know when your dad started Stark Industries and I know when you took over and whatever they say about why, and I know about all the tales of whatever you did before, during, and after college,” the words seared through him. “I know about Afghanistan, and how you got free, and I know – like the rest of the world – that you’re Iron Man.”

“But I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you.”

Stark was holding himself still as a statue.

“So you – you can’t know things about me. You can, I mean. Like how I know about the tabloids and the biographies and biopics. You have your data and you’ve got video evidence and that’s fine, but you don’t know me. I don’t pretend I know your favorite kind of food or why you don’t sleep, or what your favorite color is, so you don’t get to know me like that either unless you share back. I’m not a file.”

He quieted, but Stark still said nothing. Privately, Peter was fairly certain this was a record, which was a funny thought to have while he was so angry and terrified at the same time.

“You made me this suit. I know why you made it, and I know why you asked me to help you in Germany. I agreed because I thought you’d use all that data against me if I said no,” he nearly whispered. “And I don’t think you would. Even on the plane ride there, I kinda figured you wouldn’t. But you gotta know – you have to know what that feels like.”

“You don’t know how it’s been for us since my Uncle died, and I know you’ve lost people too, but it’s not the same,” Peter trailed off, so very weary. “It’s never the same. And you were right not to ask at first. But you weren’t when you didn’t bother to ask me later.”

“Peter,” Stark finally managed to work his vocal cords out of their stupor. “Peter, come on, look at me.”

Slowly, Peter did.

“I believe we have what some experts might call a ‘fraught’ relationship. I’m no good with kids. I know you’re not technically much of one, but to me you might as well be a fetus. In short,” he held up a hand to stall the offended look on said fetus’ face. “It’s all the same to me. You’re a kid. And I really don’t know what to make of you, but I can say I do respect you.”

Peter blinked.

“But,” Stark drawled. “I’m also pretty shit at showing respect to anyone,” he continued with a half-grin, which faded sharply. “Look. I’m not an apologies kind of guy, but all things considered, I owe you a few. And I owe you more than what I’ve tried to offer so far. Just not really sure how.”

“Then maybe you should just _ask_ ,” Peter bit out, uncaring if he sounded petulant.

The silence between them stretched out long enough that Stark eyeballed the tea like he might have considered even drinking it.

“…Wait. Is that why you offered to buy out that BJ’s when I told Happy we were low on almonds?”

“No.” Defensive and absolutely a lie.

Oh. Now there’s a thought. “Stop trying to remote update my suit with tracking software maybe,” Peter offered in what he thought was a magnanimous tone of voice. “And let me work on it? I haven’t really earned it yet either, and I have a lot of ideas to trim it down some --,”

“You don’t like the webbing options,” and it wasn’t stated as a question. More of a pout.

“I hate them,” Peter confirmed, apologetic. Somewhat so, anyway. “Maybe we can keep a few, but like, five hundred? Really?”

“I thought you’d like _more_ than just silly string as an option.”

“Hey I did plenty with just silly string on my own.”

Stark considered him then, studying Peter in a way that seemed less like he was calculating the odds and more like he was weighing him up against an invisible counterbalance. “Yeah, you did huh.”

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Peter smiled.

\--

The first thing he did upon reaching his blessed hearth and home was to crash through the door and make a bee-line to the couch. He hit the pillows face first and groaned. All of him was sore. Relieved, yes, but sore. Free he might have been from his thrice-damned curse, but all the damage control he had indebted to himself was enough to make him want to sleep for a week.

It had taken five million years, from Peter’s perspective. First, the guy he’d kicked in the face had to be delivered with _secure measures_ to the Avenger’s facility up north. Then a secondary transfer, in which Stark ran the show and delivered him with great distaste to Dr. Strange’s doorstep. Which was where Peter had chilled for most of the day, in a room specifically designed to block out distractions so he could do his homework and also not hear anyone ask him about anything (meaning he also missed the hugely snippy fight Mr. Stark and Dr. Strange had warred), which was a vacation he didn’t know he needed.

Then of course, it turned out the guy was more or less a hapless thief who had stolen some artifact with a bunch of defensive spells placed on it. Unfortunately for everyone, those spells had deteriorated in interesting ways. Drove the thief temporarily mad, and made for a lot of chaotic effects. Like kinetic blasts. Or truth spells. Per Dr. Strange, it involved a lot of ‘intricate reversals,’ a pronouncement that was met with groans from everyone except Wong, who merely muttered something about making more tea.

Like Peter said: five _million years_.

“Peter? Peter!”

“Aunt May,” he said into the cushion beneath him. “Hi.”

He couldn’t lift his head, but felt a hand run through his hair, fingers gently toying with curling strands. “You’re home,” she said, the epitome of relief.

“I’m home.”

Feeling her scoot in, he shifted to make room. “You should be glad Ned keeps me well-updated on your comings and goings. Everything got fixed? You weren’t too hurt, were you?” she asked.

Peter croaked in an attempt at laughter. “Yes, everything’s fine.” A lie. A sweet blessed lie. But a white one. “And I wasn’t, no.” A truth this time. But freely given.

They stayed together in soft silence. Peter could hear no sirens, just the shouting of some of neighboring kids, younger than him by only a few years, playing in the dark outside.

“You were avoiding me,” she said, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Peter said, shame curling in his gut. “I was. I’m sorry Aunt May.”

She moved beside him. Peter could sense her uncertainty, and wished he wasn’t the cause of it. “You know, you can tell me anything. I don’t just say that because platitudes,” there was gentle chiding there. “I say it because I mean it. I can take the truth Peter. You need people who can.”

His throat bobbed nervously, but he didn’t respond.

“Secrets have a cost,” she murmured. “They’re not for free. Not now, not ever.”

A hand of hers found his, and he squeezed, careful yet earnest. He took in a deep, lungful of air. Aunt May always smelled of leafy greens and tap water. “I know.” Peter turned his head and mustered up a smile she could see for herself. “I just wanted it to be on my terms.”

“Well not tonight. You’re pooped.”

“I am that,” he chuckled weakly.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” Peter closed his eyes, grip steady, and the weight lifted from his shoulders, if only for now. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

AMAZING Art by [maddiepuffin](https://puffins-studio.tumblr.com/post/614938148039016448/a-little-embroidery-to-go-with-the-fic-the-truth):


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